The Pale Cold Light: A Psychological Mystery (The Rain Collective Book 3) by J.R. Rain

Author:J.R. Rain [Rain, J.R.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Rain Press
Published: 2019-12-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-two

Detective Grace Hunan lives in a grand old Tudor-style home.

If, of course, she still lived here.

It has a sweeping roofline and dark brown trim with little decorative windows that remind me of frosted panes in ski chalets. The driveway is newly sealed and the window boxes and gardens are full of bright lively flowers. It’s the house of someone who takes extraordinary care over matters. The same trait that made her a good homicide detective.

If, of course, she still lived here.

I approach the front door, tempted to grab some flowers from the garden to present as an ice-breaker. But then rethink it. She’d instantly recognize them from her own garden. She’d probably accept them gracefully as she scanned for the fresh gaps I’d just pulled them from. She was too classy to show naked reproach, but I’d receive only her basic social niceties.

If, of course, she still lived here.

I’ve been standing on the front porch for over a minute, my mind a train wreck of images and remembrances. Grace had been quite lovely back in the day. We had been neighbors and I’d often seen her jogging through the neighborhood. She’d pause and we would talk, usually about work, though we weren’t partners. A fluke that she got my daughter’s case. Could have been anyone. Well, anyone but me.

The memories, crystal clear, no longer swimming up from the depths, but there, right there, front and center. I breathe, sway, balance myself.

I’m feeling the same polar opposites I’d experienced back at the reservoir: My forehead and hands are sweating, my mouth is bone dry. I ring the doorbell. It has a small camera embedded in the housing. My heart beats too fast, too hard, in my ears, in my head, in my teeth. If I walk away now on the crutches I’d only reach the sidewalk before she answered the door and caught me slinking away like some weirdo.

After an agonizing forty-five seconds, the door opens. And there she is, Grace Hunan. Her hair has gone snow white, and her face has doubled the age lines since my last memory of her. She’s still gorgeous. Her body still fit, I think. I can see she’s drawing a blank for me. See the wariness. But also the strength. She’s not one to mess with. There would be a gun nearby, of course.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

Her hard expression softens for some reason. Recognition? Maybe, maybe.

“Detective Hunan, I’m sorry for the umm…” Tripped up by my cotton mouth. Certain sounds are not easy to form without saliva to help them along. I wait for my glands to produce some lubricant for my tongue. She waits and watches, her gaze amused. Not frightened. Just patient and curious, curious.

“My name is James Matheson. I was a detective once at…”

Her face cracks with a smile. “James? How are you? How long has it been?”

I’m shaking her hand. I have an impulse to give her a peck on the cheek but it seems overly familiar and I haven’t kissed anyone in, well, a very long, long time.

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